Wolves of Winter
by dancewithdragons
Summary: They were both bastards now, both broken, both fighting to survive. Where was home and who was family, now that they stood on the ramparts of a ruined, disheveled kingdom that had once been the greatest? They were the wolves of winter, and now more than ever they knew; Winter is coming. (Rated M) On hiatus.
1. Prologue

**_The Winter Wolves are coming_**  
**_They smell our blood, our fear_**  
**_The Winter Wolves are coming_**  
**_They are drawing ever near_**

**_The Winter Wolves are coming_**  
**_In packs of hundreds and more_**  
**_The Winter Wolves are coming_**  
**_They are knocking at our door_**

**_The Winter Wolves are coming_**  
**_With teeth as sharp as knives_**  
**_The Winter Wolves are coming_**  
**_They mean to take our lives_**

**_The Winter wolves are coming_**  
**_The smell our blood, our fear_**  
**_The Winter Wolves are coming_**  
**_The Cold of Death is here._**

_Tim Vallie_


	2. Alayne I

It was snowing again in the Eyrie, the place that had once been the Kingdom of Mountain and Vale, and it indeed seemed like a cold white prison. Flowers that once blossomed in flourish on the hillsides were now covered by endless inches of ice and sleet, the rivers frozen over and crystals of innocent ivory fell infinitely from the clouded sky.

It had been winter for over two years, and Alayne Stone could count the dawns that had broken from the storming, endless nights on both hands, that day being one of them. Wind blew and the windows of her father's solar swung open. "Come away from there, sweetling. Here, sit by the fire," said Petyr, who nodded to where a bear's pelt was sprawled out by the flames.

She untied her cloak from her neck, quietly thanking a maid who stepped forward to collect it before she bolted the windows and pulled the drapes closed. Obediently, she made her way to the rug, kneeling on it and sticking her hands out to the fire. She remembered the days when her hair looked as bright and beautiful as the flames that flickered before her, the days when she was to be a Queen and had a family fighting for her. But those days were done, as gone as summer now that winter had set in. She was no longer a red haired highborn lady, but a gentleborn girl with curls the color of wood. She was no longer Sansa Stark but Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish the Lord Protector of the Vale.

He was so busy lately, her lord father, making arrangements for the war. No longer was it the War of Five Kings, since the deaths of Renly, Joffrey, and Robb, but the Great War of Westeros, continuing on for the longest of any war before it. Years it had been since the Great War began, four nearly five, and the rules of the game had changed, as had the kings. Stannis still fought for the throne, though he was the only one of the original kings left. Tommen Baratheon now ruled on the Iron Throne with Margaery as his Queen, and the Targaryens had risen again through Aegon and Daenerys, with three dragons at their heels. The last of the new kings was the most surprising to Alayne, though.

Jon Snow was a king now, the new King in the North. He'd rallied his father's bannermen who had once been Robb's and taken Winterfell as his seat. _Fitting for a Stark to claim Winterfell once more_, Alayne thought, _for he was more Stark than any of us_. No, not us, now that Sansa was dead and Alayne born, or so the Realm thought.

She was to marry Harry the Heir once, when it was freshly autumn. She was to reveal herself finally as the true Sansa and heir to Winterfell, but he'd taken sick with pox early in the first year of winter and died in his bed, skin ravaged by the disease and body so weak he couldn't even hold his own glass of water, let alone swallow. After Harry was his grandmother, Lady Waynwood, and even sweetrobin had taken the sickbed, though he'd lived through the worst of it and survived with only pockmarks on his face. With Robert alive, Petyr had schemed to marry her to him, as Lysa had planned, though in the end he'd decided against it, for which she was thankful.

She wondered now if Jon remembered her. If anyone would recognize her face. She had grown much since she had last been sighted as Sansa Stark; her once crimson curls were now chestnut and far longer than they had been before. Her body was thinner, taller, and her features indeed had taken course in looking like her lady mother, with the prominent cheekbones and river blue eyes of House Tully. Still yet, she wasn't mistaken for her true identity once since being in the Vale, which was a good thing she supposed.

Someone calling her name- not her true name but her alias, or mayhaps it was her name for true now that she had been Alayne for half the amount of time that she had been Sansa- pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Petyr staring at her with his twinkling grey-green eyes. "What troubles you, sweetling?" He asked, concerned.

"Nothing, father," Alayne insisted, standing and smoothing down her skirts. "I was just thinking that it was time I check on sweetrobin. He must be so lonely..." As of late, the little lord had taken to sitting at his window, just staring into the dark nothing as snow fell or didn't fall, not eating, not drinking, only staring. He didn't speak to anyone save Alayne, and even then it was scarce a conversation.

Petyr nodded. "Come, give your father a kiss before you go," he said, and she went to him, touching her lips to his fresh shaved cheek before turning and leaving. "Oh and Alayne," came her father's airy voice again, "enjoy the snow."

* * *

The door to Robert Arryn's chambers were ajar when Alayne reached them and she heard soft whimpering beyond the threshold. "Sweetrobin?" She called into the room as she hesitantly pushed the door open. "Are you here, sweetrobin?"

It smelled terribly in the room, suffocating and coyly sweet, and she wrinkled her nose. The stench had been lingering for weeks now, and Maester Coleman had informed she and Petyr that the boy was dying, slow but near painless. "Sweetrobin, it's Alayne. Won't you come out?" The drapes were pulled back as they always were, and the bed was made but messily so, as though the maids couldn't stand the smell. A fire raged in the hearth and only when Alayne had closed the door behind her did she hear the squeaking of a wheelchair.

Robert rolled out from the direction of his study, staring at her. "That's my favorite gown," he said, eying her up and down.

She nodded, walking towards him. The gown was one of the finer ones that Alayne owned, velvet and cotton, plush and made for winter, with the colors of cream and sky blue. _Arryn colors_. "I chose it just for you. You look strong today, you're even pushing yourself."

He gave her his best smile and held his hand out, which she kissed gently. He always had liked being told he was strong, and these days, Alayne knew, were to be his last. "How does my sweet lady fare today?" He asked her, looking out the window, where the sky was parting for a rare spurt of sunshine.

He'd been trying to restrain himself from acting up, and as he aged his fits became less and less, leading him to become a calmer being than Alayne or Petyr would have ever thought. He might have even married some lesser lord's daughter by now, had any accepted their offers, but none had because of the pox.

Though sweetrobin wasn't contagious anymore and the pox had swept through the Vale by then, his face was left scarred and ruined, where it might have even been beautiful. He had the Tully cheeks now, Alayne could see, with bright blue eyes and the russet waves of an Arryn. He'd been growing tall as of late, too, though no stronger than when she'd first met him at his seven years though he was thirteen now.

"I fare well, sweetrobin, thank you," Alayne said, turning to grab a brush from his vanity. Since his mother's death, he'd not cut his hair. Even now, as nearly a man grown, his hair was far past his shoulders, thin and falling out in clumps every day. Still, he liked it brushed, and so she brushed it gently as not to pull out too much hair. "Are you well enough for a meal today, do you think? I can have anything made for you, anything at all."

Robert shook his head. "I have no hunger or thirst today," he said, leaning closer to the window. "Will the snow ever clear, Alayne? Before I die. Will it clear?"

She ran her fingers gently on his cheek and frowned. "Die, sweetrobin? No, no, you're strong yet."

"Don't be stupid, I'm sick and I'm dying," he muttered, trying desperately to clench his fists though he was too weak. "So tell me, will the snow clear before I die?"

Alayne pursed her lips. He knew too much for his own good, or so Petyr would tell her. "No," she answered him truthfully. "The snow will remain for many years to come, remember we are only two into this winter." The boy's face fell and he looked away from the window.

"My mother hated winter," he said. "She hated it so. She told me that the snow was ugly and it was so cold... I don't hate it. Not for true, not like she did." Robert wheeled weakly towards the fire and reached his frail hands towards it, warming them. "Petyr said you were born in the winter."

She was about to correct him, tell him she was born in spring, then stopped. Alayne was older than Sansa. Alayne was born in winter. "Yes, I was," she said, nodding slowly as her eyes fell downcast.

Robert looked back at her over his shoulder and eyed her up and down before turning back to the fire, losing himself in watching the flames. "Very well. That will be all, Alayne," he said quietly, and she took her leave.

* * *

She was on her way to the High Hall for her midday meal when Petyr stopped her, only he wasn't Petyr, he was Littlefinger. Through her years of knowing him, she knew better than to trust Littlefinger; she found it hard enough to put faith in Petyr. "Take a turn with me," he insisted, holding his arm out for her. She paused for a moment before resting her hand in the crook of his arm and falling into step with him.

"Is something troubling you, father?" She asked him, raising a brow. He looked distressed and his eyes were darker than his hair, now peppered with grey.

He eyed her and sighed, looking away. "I received a raven today," he said. "It was from the Saltpans. Jon Snow has taken Harrenhal in the night and marches to the Bloody Gate." They stopped in an abandoned hall and Littlefinger pulled his arm from her hand slightly. "He comes searching for alliance."

"An alliance with the Vale is impossible. We've declared neutrality," Alayne said pointedly, crossing her arms. Harrenhal had been restored by the Lannisters and was held by the Lannisters of Lannisport, with at least half a thousand guards, how was it that Jon so simply_ took_ it? "What is he looking for?" She asked, watching as the man made his way to the window, looking out at the vast mounds of snow and ice that capped everything in sight. "My lord," she pressed when he didn't answer. "What is he expecting from us?"

"He seeks men, food, and a friendship between he and the Vale when he wins the war," he answered, turning to view her. His eyes were like pins, sticking into the sleeves of her gown and holding her in place. "Are you happy?" He asked, completely serious.

"About what, my lord?" Alayne questioned, though she knew very well what he meant.

"Seeing your brother." He raised a brow and narrowed his eyes.

She looked away to keep her composure. "I have no brothers, my lord," she said quietly, looking for something to clutch. Her facade was slipping, and soon she would follow. The news of Jon was becoming overwhelming and her mind was working desperately to understand it.

Littlefinger's lips curled into a sly smirk then and he pressed two fingers to her cheek, tilting her head so her eyes met his. "You're right. You don't. Only a cousin is left to you now, Sansa."

"I am Alayne," she said immediately, not even hearing his words. When he just stared at her, not saying a word, she felt her mind run faster and her stomach drop. "...What cousin does Sansa have? Her family is gone but for her bastard brother, Jon Snow."

"Certainly not, sweetling," he murmured to her ear as he leaned into her. "As the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, he couldn't possibly be anything but a cousin to the last wolf." _The lost wolf_, she thought, _the snow-buried wolf_.

If Jon was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, that would mean that he never was Sansa's brother. He must have known... He was never a Stark, he was a Targaryen, with dragon's blood not wolf's blood. Her heart raced as she thought of his long dark hair and steel grey eyes. He had always been more northern than any of them, but now he was the least.

She recalled wondering if he would remember her earlier, if he would know her face, and frowned. "I'm not to see him, am I..." she said slowly, looking away from Littlefinger. His fingers pushed her face back to face him.

"No," he said, face drawing nearer to her. Their lips were almost touching, and she resisted with all her might not to turn and run from the man who held her locked in the castle for over three years. He was aging, with lines around his mouth and running across his eyes, his face plumping and his dark hair peppering with the silver of winter years. His breath was like mint, the scent it had been the first day of Robert Baratheon's tourney, when he discovered her to be Catelyn Stark's daughter.

Times had been so simple then, when Eddard Stark was alive and Arya was with her, when Septa Mordane still taught her lessons and Jeyne Poole was her truest friend. She wondered if times could be simple once more, if she was given to Jon and he took her home to Winterfell.

"Look at me," came a hoarse whisper, and she slipped back into Alayne, the gentle born girl with sharp wit and humor and no family outside her father. Her eyes fixed onto his and he smirked ever so softly. "You look so much like your mother," he said, and she swore she could see Catelyn in his eyes- but her hair was brown now, and longer than it had been when she last saw her.

She wanted to call for the woman, no matter how mad she might have seemed for it, but when she opened her mouth so did her mother, and any hopes she'd had were shattered. It was just she in his eyes, not her mother. He released her, turning from her swiftly. "Go," he commanded, and so she went.

She was hungry no longer for food, but for her family; for Jon Snow.


	3. Jon I

Harsh winds slapped against them as they rode, and Jon could feel the snow nip at his toes as he galloped through the vast mounds of crystalline white. He'd been riding day and night for almost three days, along with his advisers, direwolf, and a few hundred of his men, and they were growing weary.

They'd not seen proper daylight in weeks, and he could hear his soldiers grumbling, praying for food and water and rest. A few had dared dip their hands in the snow as they sped through the ice of the High Road, eating it and dreaming of chicken or pork or steak. Each man that attempted had died. After the first few had fallen from their horses, none had attempted to put a finger to the snow, only riding along in utter silence.

They rode to the Eyrie, to meet with the lords of the Vale and discuss the possibility of their sending men, food, and other provisions to aid Jon's cause.

After he'd turned down Stannis Baratheon's proposal to make him Lord of Winterfell, Jon had recounted on his life. He'd been nothing but a bastard to most, and joined the Night's Watch in almost an act of rebellion as much as passion; so he left. Looking around him, at the hundreds of men both clad in Stark colors and in black, he didn't think he could have made a better decision.

The sound of a horn blowing pulled him from his mind and he snapped his head around, looking up to see the Bloody Gate was opening. "Make way for His Grace!" Called men all over the premises, yanking the gate doors open through the snow, each donned in furs so thick they looked like bears.

Jon nodded to the men and held his arm in the air, pointing in the direction of the castle. His men all shouted, hollering their thanks to the gods, old and new, and he heard his direwolf, Ghost, howl from somewhere near by. Kicking his stallion into a heavier gallop, the King in the North sped through the snow, wishing, hoping, that this wouldn't be for naught.

"Do you think they'll have stew and beer?" Asked his head maester and most trusted companion, Samwell Tarly. His friend was dressed in his blacks, wearing a cloak so fury that it hid most of his chub. "I'd so like some warm food and drink after this long ride."

"Aye, it was a long ride, and there will be many more. It is winter, Sam." Jon looked to the maester and softened. "I'm sure that Lord Baelish will provide us with more than we need." He knew of the man's reputation; he was a traitor and a business man, doing what he needed if only to climb the latter of success- but there were dragons now, destructive and monstrous, and even men like Petyr Baelish were fearful of them, as well as their masters.

Daenerys Targaryen and her nephew Aegon were mad, it was told. They had all the heat and benevolent passion of their ancestors, but none of the finesse to accomplish being the King and Queen of Westeros. The Dragon Queen had lived all her life across the Narrow Sea, it was told, and knew little of the Seven Kingdoms beside the dark tidings whispered to her from spiders and spies alike. She was said to be cruel, and so Jon believed as well when he heard of her taking flame to all the castles that refused to bend their knee. Houses all around the realm were perishing because of the winter snow and frost; they didn't need to add a tormenting queen to the list of reasons to rebel.

He sighed, flicking the reins when his horse slowed, hearing Ghost's heavy pants as his sprang forward to meet him from wherever he was lurking. The Eyrie was growing closer in sight, and he silently marveled at it. The high walls and open cells were drenched in white snow, thick vines cascading down the whole enclosure while forest animals, however little there were, scurried away from the sound of their horses' hooves stampeding through the ivory dust.

A path was lit by flickering candlelight, leading up to the castle entrance, and the men followed it with ease. The higher they climbed up the road that led to the seat of House Arryn, the harder the snow fell, and Jon could feel each flake slice into his skin as though it melted six feet deep.

"I heard that Lord Baelish has a daughter," came a voice from behind, and Jon craned his neck slightly to see Pyp grinning madly. "Heard she was a pretty thing with eyes like the sky and legs as long as the castle walls."

Jon scoffed. "We're not here to see some little girl, Pyp. We're here for food, supplies, and an alliance."

Sam intervened in saying, "I've heard of her too. Her name is Alayne; takes care of the sick Lord Robert, they say. Some say she likes to..."

"Who cares what she does or likes? We're not here for her." Jon kicked into his horse's sides and rode ahead, grunting as he roughly plopped up and down the saddle, all the while wondering why this_ Alayne_ was so interesting to his men. "She's just some stupid girl, I bet," he mumbled dismissively as he galloped along. They were nearly at the castle.

* * *

The doors of the Eyrie were twice as tall as Jon had expected, towering over any door he'd seen before, varnished the color of burnt cherries. The handles were heavy iron, wrought in a wreath of eagle wings, and he hesitated before reaching his hand out and grabbing one.

It weighed some ton and by the time he'd smacked it against the wood, men from inside had noticed their presence and began opening the doors. As the two doors were shoved apart, revealing the warm castle inside, a gust of swirling snow stung Jon's back and he hurried into the entrance, direwolf at heel, his some two hundred men being tended to already with blankets rushed out to them as well as hot stew and ale.

"Welcome to the Vale, Your Grace," came a light, airy voice, and Jon turned. The man was small, short as well as thin, with a black head of hair and pointed beard, both peppered with silver. His skin was at the beginning stage of wrinkling and his eyes, grey-green, were pinched as he smiled. He wore thick robes in lavish colors of emerald to bring out the green of his eyes and cloaks of black to match his dark boots. His arms were out in welcome and he smiled, though it was off. Guarded.

Jon nodded to the man nonetheless, burying his hand in his wolf's fur. "Lord Baelish," he greeted, "I appreciate all you are doing for my men and I." Behind him, Samwell and Pypar agreed, thanking him most graciously. Too graciously.

Observing around, Jon's eyes caught sight of the welcoming party behind Littlefinger. There were some of the Lords of the Vale, some maids and servers standing by with wine and bread, and then there was a girl.

Her hair was deep brown, falling in calm ringlets to the mid of her waist, clean and brushed through. Her face was bowed down, but when she glanced up at him Jon bit back a gasp. Her eyes were so familiar; so blue that they looked like the sky he hadn't realized he missed so dearly. They seemed to shine sadly when they fell on the direwolf and she looked away once more. She had to be Alayne, he thought as he watched her steadily, taking in her simple woolen blue gown and heavy fur cloak. There was something about the way she stood and dressed that struck him in the stomach.

"My natural born daughter, Alayne," Petyr introduced, clearly taking note of the king's intent stare. "Go on, sweeting, greet the men. They've come so far, I'm sure a warm welcome is all they want."

The girl's eyes flickered to her father and she nodded, lifting her head and stepping to the man's side. She was quite a bit taller than him, but when she dipped into a sweeping curtsy, no one could tell. "Welcome, my lords, Your Grace. If you would be so kind as to follow Maddy, she will lead you to your chambers." When she looked up with a light smile that didn't quite reach her bright eyes, he could feel his face twist in wonder.

She looked like someone he knew, surely, and he longed to ask after her when she nodded her head at them and turned- leaving to see the Lord Robert, Littlefinger said. Snow pawed the ground and Jon patted his head.

"He's been sickly; took to the pox earlier," Samwell whispered to him of the little lord, and Jon nodded to his friend.

"Your Grace, I will escort you to your chambers personally," Petyr Baelish offered, holding his hand out in the direction of a long, well-lit corridor, and it took a reassuring nudge from both his companions before Jon even acknowledged the man.

"Of course," he said, watching as his friends followed after the maid that the girl, Alayne, had gestured to before. As he went with Lord Baelish, Ghost trailing behind him, he noticed it was the opposite direction that the Lord Protector of the Vale's daughter had gone, or so he noted.

It was luxurious and warm, enough so that Jon could take off his cloak of bear pelts. Looking around, he could see there were refreshments, food on the tables, and the fireplace looked to have been lit all day, a pile of dried wood beside it to keep it alight. "This is more than enough, Lord Baelish, truly. I would be happy in an average room with my men," he insisted. His wolf padded into the room and sniffed everything before pulling a chunk of steak to the ground and attacking it with his fangs.

"Nonsense," Petyr replied, smirking at the beast with both interest and fear. "You're a guest of the Vale, and King in the North; your apartments reflect our appreciation of you coming."

Jon crossed his arms, This all seemed too good, but he was tired and snow began melting in his hair, dripping icily down his back. Instead of arguing, he nodded at the room and thanked the man. "I should like a hot bath... We shall begin discussing on the morrow, if you so please."

"Yes, Your Grace," said the man, who turned and left Jon to his own.

* * *

The bath was steaming hot and Jon had indulged in it until his fingers pruned and he forced himself to dry and dress. The clothing that he'd worn into the castle was soaked from the snow-melt now, and so he decided to don the odd attire that was left in the room; high collared and stiff with buttons down the front rather laces don the back.

After dressing, Jon ate and drank, sharing with Ghost, all in the silence of his chamber. He could sometimes hear a maid or lord either being ordered or ordering, and listened carefully for anything unusual when he did. There was nothing to truly listen to in the conversations that he could hear, so he tuned them out and let the crackle of the hearth drown out all noise from his ears.

Alayne seemed familiar, with her courtesy and her eyes- even the gown she wore- but he shrugged it off. She was no skin from his bones, nor was she important to him; just another girl thrown into the game of thrones, he assumed as he finished his flagon of brown ale and set it down, rising. His wolf followed, tail wagging softly.

Tomorrow the real business would begin and he would see to it that his army was replenished, as well as an alliance set with the Vale and his forces. The dreaded night of winter was breaking once more and Jon sighed as he watched the steel grey clouds fly by, opening a patch of glimmering light. This winter had been on so long, and was supposed to last so much longer... He wasn't sure what he had gotten himself into, but he didn't regret his decision one bit.

He had been Jon Snow, simply the bastard of Lord Eddard Stark, but now he was a king, like his half brother before him, and had the realm at his feet, were it not for the dragons, the lion, and the last stag, who couldn't lead his army more than a few feet without the red priestess Melisandre louring him the other direction.

_The Great War_, he mused darkly in his head as he laid on the feather bed, far too soft for his taste, and pulled the furs over his body._ More like the Great Disaster_. He sighed and rolled over, his direwolf Ghost resting beside the fire, dreaming, for the first time in years, of Winterfell and his old family from his home, of Robb and Bran and Rickon, of Arya and his father and Lady Catelyn, even Theon crossed his mind as his dreamed, but it was his eldest sister's face that resonated with him for the longest. The one who was to marry a prince but wed a dwarf instead, the pretty girl with long red hair and big Tully eyes, who believed in songs and loved to dance.

_Sansa_.

_*Sorry all, I've fixed the wolf's name! I typed this at the crack of dawn, haha. All better now :)_


End file.
